


Red Ink

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Benny is Your Comedy Relief, Break Up, Coincidences, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Depressed Castiel, Doctor Benny Lafitte, Heavy Angst, Insecure Dean Winchester, M/M, Post-Break Up, Tattoo Removal, Tattooed Castiel, Tattooed Dean Winchester, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: The drawback to having an insatiable passion for art and self-expression is the death of a muse. Slapped on his left upper bicep is a giant, glowing red handprint. Just below that is a name that wraps around his entire muscle in sloppy cursive, but still clearly reads—“Castiel.”





	Red Ink

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally supposed to be a funny fic........... yeah.
> 
> Song throughout: "Break First" by Tim McGraw and Faith Hill -- my OG otp.

 

 _You or me, baby, who's gonna break first?_  
You or me, baby, who's gonna break first?  
Who's gonna walk up and say "hi"  
Then lean in a little close to whose lips  
Say, "what the hell are we doin'?"  
You or me, baby, who's gonna break first?

 

Red Ink

Since he was six, Dean’s never shied far from ink.

The earliest drawing he can remember conceiving is a beetle with music notes surrounding it. May the single black crayon in his pack of 63 assorted wax pencils rest in peace, because the original drawing was done in Crayola — and it’s very hard to get something completely black, despite what his fifth grade art teacher said about it being a matter of repetition, rather than pressure. (Try telling that to the dismembered crayon, Mrs. Mills.)

Dean doesn’t have anything against beetles. Just like people, he hates all bugs equally. It was actually a symbolic drawing. The beetle represents The Beatles, the band, and the music notes correlate with the sheet music found in the chorus of “Hey Jude”, a song his late mother sang to him before bedtime.

It isn’t until, while sitting through another lecture about polygons, he re-drew the piece in pen. The teachers gave them pen to draw shapes Dean had successfully completed ten minutes prior to the actual lesson, to see where they went wrong when they go over and correct the misshapen pencil lines.

That moment would solidify the course of his life. He may have not been the most original kid, experimenting with pen on his own skin, but he became immersed with the process. He started learning how to transfer the drawing onto his skin using tracing paper. He would do this over and over until he had a sleeve of pen residue either decorating his arm or leg. Sometimes, if he had enough time at recess, he could tackle both a left and right appendage. Detention became his favorite after-school activity for that very reason.

Dean still has that beetle drawing, placed between his chest. Except, this time, it’s actually embedded into his skin. Along with a dozen others.

Unfortunately, however, not all drawings have translated into worthwhile tattoos. The drawback to having an insatiable passion for art and self-expression is the death of a muse. Slapped on his left upper bicep is a giant, glowing red handprint. Just below that is a name that wraps around his entire muscle in sloppy cursive, but still clearly reads—“Castiel.”

Dean glances up at the middle-aged mountain man specialist, Dr. Laffite, holding a laser that looks more like a mini jackhammer.

The man himself could make gaping holes with those chilled blue eyes. It takes Dean back to a Friday night dressed in red. The cherries on the coffee table. The pits scattered around the remote to the television turned to Netflix. Cas’s eyes when he opened the door, making the blue in them pop as they went through a vicious spin cycle that clearly missed the rinse. Dean held him through it. Held him through the pain of losing — and gaining, until he felt Cas’s right hand singe his left arm. Dean pushed deeper. The nails clawing half-moons into Deans knuckles faded, but that handprint on his arm stayed a few days. Cas stayed for a few years.

“Mus’ ‘ave smarted.”

Dean’s not sure if the doc’s talking about the tattoo or the relationship, and he doesn’t bother correcting him when both answers are the same.

Just as Dean braces for the laser, the front bell jingles.

Dr. Laffite holds up his watch. “‘m not supposta have another client for another two hours. ‘Cuse me.”

Dean can hear Dr. Lafitte after he steps out, completely contradicting southern hospitality when he states, “What’re ya doin’ here so early?”

There’s a pause. “Isn’t it noon?”

Dean’s breath hitches. He knows that voice. He’s felt it tickle his skin and rumble against his eardrums.

“‘s ten, Chief.”

“Ten? No... that can’t be. I set my alarm for 11.”

“I would ask how many ya tipped back before ya came here, but you look like you could use a drink.”

Peeling himself from the sticky paper on the doctor’s chair, Dean creeps to the open door. The waiting room is a straight-shot down the hallway, so he has a clear view of Cas at the counter.

Dean already knows which tattoo he’s getting removed. It’s Dean’s name integrated into one of the feathers on his double-winged back. Cas said he had a fear of falling until meeting Dean, and with one feather that’ll be missing, there’s a higher chance of just that. He already looks like a fallen angel. His dark brown hair’s ruffled, his red hoodie stained and coming apart at the seams. Dean doesn’t remember him owning jeans that are ripped, nor tennis shoes that have tattered laces.

And yet, somehow, despite the extent of his five o’clock shadow and the heavy bags under his eyes, he’s still the most gorgeous angel Dean’s ever met.

“I’ll just come back at my scheduled time. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Did I do this to you?”

Both men snap their head to Dean, whose feet somehow carried him to the waiting room.

Cas blinks a few times and Dean can actually see the exhaustion painted on his face now. The smile lines around his eyes Dean has taken for a test drive with an off-color joke or cheesy compliment have since wilted to accommodate his frown—erasing the dimples around his mouth. “Dean? What’re you—?”

Dean glances down. Remembering he’s shirtless, he makes a futile attempt to cover himself. But Cas’s eyes aren’t trained on his chest.

“Oh.” Two letters, one syllable. Some would even argue, just a sound.

“’m takin’ a lunch.”

Neither man notices Dr. Lafitte slip out. Dean moves to sit on the couch with what little strength he has in his body. Cas hesitantly follows, sitting a fair distance away.

“So…”

“So… no.”

Dean tilts his head. Cas has rubbed off on him, sticking to him like his tattoo and the empire of memories they’ve built over the last three years—places where walls should’ve been built over the past few months before the flood hit. Dean can’t recall how many times he’s cried.

“No, you didn’t do this to me,” Cas clarifies.

“Cas, you don’t have to keep defending me.”

Cas’s chest expands and retracts like a lazily stretched balloon.

“I’m the one that got jealous,” Dean says, shaking his head to stall the onslaught of tears. “That night you came to my house… I don’t know.”

“You don’t… know?”

“I mean, I thought I’d finally had you, I guess, instead of a part of you. So when Balthazar took you out to apologize, I lied. I said it was okay because I trusted you. I did—I _do_ —it’s just…”

“What?”

Dean sighs.

“Dean, please,” Cas stresses. Dean can tell he’s curbing himself from saying more, for which he’s grateful. “Please, just… tell me what it is.”

“I didn’t…” Dean combs a shaky hand over his mouth. “I didn’t trust _myself_ to be okay with it. I couldn’t see myself looking past it. I couldn’t see myself ever being with you and not feeling that… _feeling_ creep up on me.”

“Like you weren’t enough—like you _aren’t_ enough.”

Dean bites his lip and nods.

“Did you ever look past it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “when you left.”

Cas’s mouth parts, and that’s all it takes for that single tear in Dean’s right eye to muster the courage to fall. Dean turns away and shoots an embarrassing amount of mucus back into his nostrils. With any luck, it’ll coat his larynx and render him speechless.

Dean jerks away when he feels Cas’s hand cover his. “Don’t you get it, Cas?! I’m not worth it! I’m not—I can’t.”

“Yes, you are! You know who did this to me? _I_ did this to me!” Cas is screaming now. “I did this to myself because you couldn’t get it through your thick, obnoxious head that you’re worth _everything_ to me!”

Red. That’s the last thing Dean sees before smashing his lips against Cas’s.

Dean’s doesn’t recall the bell jingling to the shop. Only that Dr. Lafitte walks in on the start of something above his paygrade. “Mr. Winchester, Mr. Novak, are ya still wantin’ ta do the procedure?”

“Right. Um…” Cas’s hand falls from where it rests on Dean’s left bicep, perfectly molded over the handprint, and that’s all the confirmation Dean needs to answer: “Yes. Yeah, we’re gonna need the space for a clean slate.”

 

 

 _Do you know how hard it is bein' in this situation?_  
Knowing you were everything  
And now havin' to act like we're nothing  
And pretendin' that I don't still love you

 

 


End file.
